the union jack

To call him had not been much of an obstacle. In fact, it had been surprisingly easy, considering that his hands had been trembling like leaves, and that Jack, for a while, had believed his voice would simply fail him. He had ignored the time, picked the phone up at five in the morning, and requested for Roger to come to the manor. A place, Jack had learned to hate over the years; with the ever lingering knowledge that someone so very important had been ripped from this place almost twenty years ago. Someone, who had left a gaping hole in Jack's heart; one that neither his wife, nor his daughter could close any longer.

Someone who had not left his thoughts once in all these years.

When the news had reached him, vague, based on nothing but rumours, Jack had believed the world would end. The universe declaring that this was nothing but a cruel joke, time to wake up again, old man. But nothing the like had happened. Instead, two glasses of scotch had happened, tears of rage and something else -- and then this very call. It didn't matter whether he liked Roger or not. None of this mattered right now.

By the time the door bell rang, there were two bottles of whiskey ready in the parlour. Two glasses neatly beside it. And Jack cared very little about the fact that it was merely eight o'clock in the morning. He had hinted to nothing on the phone, simply asked for Roger to come by as soon as possible; though they both know very well, that the stubborn Lord Falsworth would not call Roger Aubrey for no good reason at all. Tears have disappeared when he opens the door, the rage simmered down a little, and yet he cannot get himself to smile at all. For once though, it is not Roger's fault.

       "I'm glad you could make it on such short notice." 

A gesture to lead the way; two glasses filling up with whiskey once they have closed the doors to the parlour, and one of them is pressed into Roger's hand. And yet there's plain, terrible silence for a few seconds, while Jack tries to clear his head, gather his thoughts, and actually say something.

"Present."

The quiet hissing of the radio still resounds; echoes from the plain walls around him. It's damp, cold, nothing but a bunker the Nazis had abandoned long ago; picked up again by HYDRA or whatever had been left of it. Broken test tubes and petri plates tell a tale of what has once happened down here, notes had been left, a few letters to Strucker personally; all of it served on a silver platter for those eight unfortunate people, whose bodies are currently littering the floor. Broken, torn and ripped to shreds. The days of S.H.I.E.L.D. are done; the organization burned to the ground by one of their own. With Fury underground and Hill hiding behind the lawyers of Tony Stark, there is very little left that could help to restore the once striving bureau.

And yet they send their scientists, their recon teams, the very last heroes remaining, to clean up the mess that HYDRA left behind. Searching feverishly for signs and hints they might have missed before; reasons that explain why it had been so easy for HYDRA to undermine their beloved, false security. The Skull is allegedly dead, Madame Hydra retreated to a safe hideout to regather her strength, and no word has been heard from the Baron. It feels safe. A deceiving quiet.

One that an entirely new player in this game uses to an advantage. The cogs of the Soviet machine are finally turning once more. 

The radio hisses again, an American dialect echoes through the otherwise entirely quiet room, and the voice sounds familiar. Can you copy?! He's heard it before. Connects a blurry picture to it, red, blue, and white. The enemy. Bravo huffs through the Union Jack rag protecting his face, and eyes the radio curiously to listen for any more words. This is Captain America speaking! Can you cop-

The radio splinters with a crack, as he digs his heel into the plastic and metal. Casually. Simple. There is no need to get hasty. This, exactly, is what he wants after all. It's what he's been trained for, what he's been sent for. He had allowed them to call for aid. Three already dead at the time, the other five had fallen into a panic. Cursed, begged, screamed at the radio for help -- and one by one, they had died. Leaving nothing but wailing and gunshots for the radio.

And now it's quiet.

☮: A peck on your forehead.

Glass crunches below his feet; a mirror in shards, pieces of a solid sink scattered across the room, a colourful mix with the ripped wallpapers created on the floor. It is way past midnight and Jack finds himself unable to sleep, ever since Brian has come home again. Fear haunts his dreams, images that have burned themselves deep into his mind -- a constant nightmare, that has been chasing him for years now. Insomnia hits his old bones hard, his body unforgiving for every single hour he stays awake, and yet he cannot sleep. He cannot allow himself to sleep. For the sake of his son.

That pitiful, beaten soul sitting in the middle of the mayhem. Chased by his very own nightmares; those that remain even when one's eyes are open, the kind that shows you images in the mirror that simply are not true anymore. He presses his bruised knuckles close to his chest; the whole slender form trembling like a leaf. And Jack feels his heart shatter and fall to the ground to mingle with the fragments already there. 

"Brian."

A visible flinch rushes through the shaking body; the very same panic rising that has possessed him as a child already, whenever his father had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Dad, I'm so sorry. I don't know --"

He hears a rustling of cloth, the gush of water into the broken remainders of the sink; feels a hand on his shoulder, and then he's there. With that very same calm, stoic face. The lines around his eyes have grown deeper, the features of his face hardened a little, Brian finds, but it still undoubtedly is the face he remembers from his childhood. 

"Dad --"

"What don't you know?"

It's such a simple question. It paints confusion on Brian's features, eyebrows knitted, and his father takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, pays no mind to the chaos raging in the younger man's head, and reaches out for the bruised hand. For a moment, Brian merely watches every single move, every single soft dab with the damp towel, every little trace of blood slowly disappearing from his maltreated skin. Then he pulls his knees close to his body, wraps his arm around and them and rests his chin on them, the gaze steadily remaining on the regular motion of his father's hand, and the gentle, familiar warmth that oozes from Jack. 

"I don't know who I am anymore." His voice is muffled against the fabric of his pants, quiet and hoarse, and laced with concern.

The dapping stops, Brian wishes it didn't, and Jack once again reaches out to catch the other man's neck in a strong, yet assuring grip. Blue eyes grow wide, then they quickly blink away a tear or two, when he feels a kiss pressed to his forehead. It almost feels like he's five years old again. With a scraped knee. In the arms of the man he has always considered his hero.

"You're my son."

send my muse lies about people they care for.

send my muse lies about people they care for.

There's a brief flash of Roger Aubrey's stupidly grinning face in the back of Jack's mind, and it sends a nasty, cold shiver down his spine.

send my muse lies about people they care for.

His heart skips a beat for a moment; an almost childish excitement surges through his body, just the way it had been when he had first heard those words when Ellie had fallen pregnant with Brian. Then again with Jacqueline. When he, for the first time in his life, had felt like everything had finally turned out fine. That this was his way to eternal happiness.

And then he remembers that those emotions will never be real again. That such a prolonged life as theirs makes it impossible for them; that their biology is messed beyond repair. That even though they both would, both willing to give almost everything for it, they can't. And his heart shatters again.

☠: My fist to your kisser & ♥: A kiss on your lips

His head drones; loud, obnoxious, and Jack wishes that he could trade the meagre aspirin pill in that tiny silvern kidney dish with a nice morphine drip. A bandage covers his left eye, ten stitches to the brow; the orange tint of his skin makes him feel like the Grinch gone Oompa Loompa, and the reason for all this is leaning against the wall opposite him. A smug smile on the pretty lips. His mind is set in rage mode, and Falsworth knows it. Grits his teeth, almost clenches his fist had it not been for the sprained fingers; and he draws his only joy from the fact that she looks just as battered and bruised as he does. 

The one true casualty is his ego; that nagging feeling that had been spreading throughout his bones for months now, telling him that maybe, possibly, he was getting to old for this. That a man of his age and experience doesn't belong on the battlefield anymore, but should rather stay behind a desk. And by god he would. Oh how he would. Had it not been for the fact, that Montgomery Falsworth is equipped with said ridiculous ego. A Falsworth does not lose. A Howling Commando does not lose. The Union Jack does not lose.

He waves off any further medical attention, mind set on a glass of whisky and the solitude of his room on the redesigned Helicarrier, to process this bust gone entirely wrong, find a few mistakes with himself, and plenty with others, when he hears her voice by his ear in passing; his hand almost on the doorhandle.

"I told you your days were over, Jack. You can't survive this century with nothing but pride, and no knack for covert operations." Is that malice in her green eyes? Pity? Glee? He had once been a beacon of hope. A hero of war, instilling panic and fear in the hearts of any enemy of the alliance. The first hero the world had seen. And he had paid the price for the arrogance that had possessed him; his wife, his son, the feeling of home. "Do us all a favor and resign already. I don't want to die for your mis--"

The slap across her face echoes in the tiled medical room. He should have minded those dislocated and bruised fingers; feels the pain surge through his arm and into his shoulder, feels the back of his hand growing red hot, but it's not so bad considering that there's now blood on her burst lip, and shock in her eyes. Neither of them has expected that. And yet, before he can even think about, his sound hand closes around her neck and her back hits the wall behind her. Hard. Painful again.

She's not choking. She's not fighting his grip either. 

"I was already a fighter before you were born! I was a hero of war, a symbol of peace, while you were nothing but a child! A puppet in a lab! I will not, under no circumstances, allow anyone to talk to me like that! Especially not a Soviet sket like yourself!"

There's rage between them. Pure, undiluted hate; so very obvious it could have been cut with a knife. He oozes arrogance and disrespect towards her, and she wants to cut his throat for it. She personifies everything he hates in the world, everything he's been fighting against ever since the first war had broken out, and he wants to crack her skull open against the white tiles. 

Instead, a ridiculously gentle touch follows; her throat still in his grip, growing a little tighter maybe, he kisses the blood from her lip. The rage rests in his hand around her neck, but none of it tints this one kiss; so kind, so gentle, lingering; so disgustingly sweet that she almost melts against him -- and then feels that smirk against her lips. The hand disappears; she can breathe again, and yet when he leaves the room without another word, but a cocksure strut; the heavily bandaged hand showing one last mocking salute, flaring anger almost presses the air from her lungs again.

send my muse lies about people they care for.